her hands smell like iron,
his wrists are slit
she spits onto a canvas and smiles,
as he sits in a bathtub full of
tribulations and trials
seem to keep infiltrating your headspace;
your face is full of cloudy grays
a taste like toothpaste
pervades
the air,
as you sit in a chair and stare
at a window with blinds closed,
wondering, earnestly, where it is
all the love goes;
blood flows
down the drain
as his body
is no longer capable
of feeling pain
or anything.
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